


my brother is in my basement i guess

by smackity (lvended)



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: ALSO techno oldest child rights :), Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Tommy has trauma, i haven't written something like this for fun in so long, i think Tommy's journey through trauma is only going to get worse from here so ill tag it, ive had to type that last tag so many times why, mention of manipulation, mention of mental abuse, might not be super accurate as the stream ended like. 5hrs ago lmao, pls be nice to me im begging you, sometimes writing angst is self-care, this is also from technos pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28129224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lvended/pseuds/smackity
Summary: "Well.It’s not everyday you find your brother in your basement."After a long walk home, Techno is greeted by the sight of Tommyinnit in his retirement home and something is strange about his younger sibling.(Technoblade's log.)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 291





	1. Day 1

Well.

It’s not everyday you find your brother in your basement.

I thought being executed would be an event, but finding Tommy scurry under the floorboards of what is supposed to be my retirement home was something I can’t quite ignore. He was different from when I last saw him, when I watched Wilbur’s explosives shine in his eyes. Tommy was excited back then. The horror I saw was naive, a fatal attempt to take down my past rage. A hope to salvage what had been lost. 

When we fought that day, I knew he would lose.

I remember even when we were kids and Tommy wanted to join our sparring sessions, he’d argue with Philza for hours. How he was grown, how he could beat me this time. His enthusiasm was relentless. Tommy was so hard-headed, he didn’t need a helmet. He'd hit with his entire body. I remember how he cheered when he landed a blow on me, I remember how blue his eyes got when he landed a trick. When I sparred back, he'd never block. He'd bite his lip and take hits, all in an effort to just tap me with his sparring sword. When he sparred, he gave it his best. Despite this, no matter what I did, he’d end up on the ground. 

But like the 16th, like our adolescence, he got back up. And he’d swing like the world was in his blade. 

The Tommy I saw today--his torn clothes poorly sewn together and his shoes worn--was different. The bags under his eyes may have been worse before, but I could still see him, and his hands were thick and callused. When he attempted to walk away from me, I could see the soles of his shoes were thin, the bone of his heel hitting the floor between the flimsy layer of leather. While he was the same little brother that decorates his room with gems, he was tired.

He trembles when I come near. Something’s happened. I know it.

I’ve seen the way he grasps at his pickaxe, making his knuckles go white as he dug his fingernails into his palm. I’ve seen the way he followed me around like a stray dog, the way his eyebrows furrowed and the corners of his mouth drop as I left a room and how quick he was to assume I’m gone. I’ve seen the way he barked at me, how feverishly he tried to stand his ground when we’d fight--as if filling the room with his words would make it less lonely. As if loudness gaves him strength.

Granted, Tommy’s never been one for silence. Before he even learned how to talk, he’d babble to whoever could stand the grandiose tale of whatever babies find interesting. He was even more annoying once he found out what words were, and that only increased tenfold once he discovered sentences. I thought his apparent exile would be a hot topic for him. I imagined when I saw him again, it would be the only thing he talked about; how he fought off the wilderness, how he made a home for himself, how “women would just not leave him alone” as he often boasted about.

I guess his talkative nature hasn’t really changed since then. God, I think it’s actively gotten worse. His mouth is never closed; he’d cursed like he’ll die if he doesn’t. The  _ moment  _ the conversation moves on without him, he asks me what the worst word I know is. He can’t bear to let anyone think about it, he just wants to talk. We talk about what we’ll do next, Tommy goes in and out of the conversation, but when we mention the nether, he finally goes quiet.

"I can’t go into the nether, I’ll die.” Or something along those lines. Although being banned from somewhere normally never stopped him.

He’s defeated the moment we ask why. The Tommy I knew would jump at the opportunity to talk about his adventures. The Tommy I knew would talk for hours about how much bigger he’s gotten, how he’s discovered new trees, how he’s devoured the day. This Ranboo guy knew Tommy for longer; he knew Tommy at least more recently than I did. I thought as friends, maybe Ranboo could give him comfort to opening up. I guess I don’t know my brother well enough these days. He was always closer to Wilbur, but speaking to a ghost probably won’t help him feel any safer.

I won’t push Tommy to say anything he doesn’t want, it just doesn’t feel right. He’s scared. If I force the information out of him, what better am I than who’ve hurt him?

But I want to understand what happened.

Dream seems to have hurt him. Tommy’s so adamant on Dream not knowing where he is, the wrinkles in his face as he spits out the words are burned into my memory. For the first time in my life, the horror in Tommy is anxious, ready to face the worst. Tommy is always anticipating something. He didn't used to turn away from explosions. He didn’t used to shut down this way when we’d argue. The way he held his breath when I asked to see my things was worrying enough.

I can feel it in my tusks, I can feel it in the way he looks at my weapons. I can feel the fear in his breath when he pauses. He’s waiting for something. He’s  _ expecting  _ something.

_ Something is wrong. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok hello this is my first fic! ever! at least publicly!  
> i hope you enjoyed it and the lore was correct, i was suddenly struck with inspiration (i guess) at like 3am and now it's almost 5am haha. watching techno's and tommy's stream earlier yesterday was really fun and i loved the little things about the streams so i wanted to write something a bit less improv'd. (although since this is a lightly reworked first draft, i guess this is improv'd too.)
> 
> hope to make more of this in the future, but updates (if i do any at all) might be slow so pls bear with me :)  
> feedback is always apricated but if you are overly hateful i will cry


	2. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Techno and Tommy visit L'Manburg and Techno watches his brother behave very strangely.  
> (CW: panic attack)

Tommy’s strange.

And I don’t mean it in a bad way, Tommy’s been weird. He’s been weird for as long as I’ve known him; I’m reminded of when he tried to stab me with his pacifier when I held him. But the longer I hang around him, the more things I notice about his behavior.

Sometimes I’ll hear him in his room at night when he wakes from nightmares, his yelps breaking the silence of the darkness. The terracotta walls of my house sometimes echo his lucid pleads back to me as I sit in bed. Most of it is an apology.

“I’ll be better.”

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault.”

The phrases choke him in his slumber. I think they put him to sleep at times, to drift into that nightmare again to wake in terror. 

This morning I caught him on the front porch before we started the day, staring off into the white tundra. Looking out into the blank canvas of a new sheet of snow, ringing his red hands together in a thoughtful contemplation. I tried to mind my own business, I feel almost embarrassed for noticing. But the cold wisps that left his mouth looked like ghosts and when he caught them in his hands, it was like he was holding himself together-- like who he is will disappear, like it’ll slip through the gaps of his fingers.

He talks to himself constantly, I’m sure at this point he’s annoyed himself. I guess that’s why he talks to me, because at least I’ll say something for him. The company is different than Philza or Wilbur. Me and Tommy never “hung out,” I guess, this long before.

We infiltrated L’Manberg today.

For a moment, I saw a Tommy I haven’t seen in a while, a Tommy I saw when we hunted together in my teens. It was the same Tommy that went into the forest for the first time, a younger Tommy that I dressed for the autumn chill and the mobs in the dark. A boy filled with wonder, staring at new sights with awe. I remember when I had to lead him down the hill behind our house and how like a puppy, I pulled him along the trail. How tightly he’d squeeze my hand as his head whipped around to take it all in. How he’d tug on my sleeve to see what’s in the distance.

Oh, that day he ate that dirt road. That day, his armor woke up the birds as he rolled down the hill, screaming as an attempt to look cool. The sound of his pain quieting as the path flattened. I remember I told him to take off his armor, how Phil was going to kill me if he returned with as much as a scratch.

Just like today, he clung to his chest plate. His furrowed brow was much different from when he was younger. Where pride once was, lives fear.

Maybe retirement is making me nostalgic.

Maybe seeing Tommy happily surprised at L’Manburg was refreshing after seeing him so confused.

I only wish it lasted longer.

I don’t know much about Tommy, this is something I can’t help. I wasn’t there before the war and I wasn’t there in his exile, all I know is  _ something _ changed him. We looked for a base after I figured out my armor was in inventory instead of storage. I remembered in my fight with Quackity that there was a room that had been long abandoned.

A blackstone box several miles underground, decorated with chests of past treasure and a coldness of dark. Two lanterns creak from the low ceiling, illuminating the dust that lives there.

“The Final Control Room.”

I should’ve known something was wrong when he stood in the hallway, slowly inching himself to the doorway. I should’ve known when he hesitated, when he placed a shaky hand on the wall, when his eyes darted around the room. He stumbled, his eyes still trying to hold onto something--anything to anchor him. I turned around for a moment, and he was gone.

His voice rang in the hallway, he spoke quickly.

In the moment, I thought it was a bit. I thought he was being dramatic over not having his way with the base. But I can’t stop thinking about what he looked like. I can’t stop seeing his figure as he ran away, how his body carried him down the sewers. The stream of tears, the flush in his face when he looked back at me,  _ we’ve got to go. _

Somehow I managed to catch up with him. The sound of his fall echoed down the pipes, his cries became more frantic. I held him. Like I did when we went hunting. 

And Tommy pushed away with clammy hands.

And Tommy couldn’t stop shaking. 

And Tommy cried into my cape the same panicked mantra, mumbling denial.

I let him sink into me, I let him sit on the weathered stone floor as his grip tightened on my sleeve. He’s gotten bigger, I realize, but his frame shrank in his moment of vulnerability.

“Where’s Dream?” I remember feeling the words amidst his snot fall down his face. “I need my friend Dream.”

He kept asking about him until he could stand.

Dream seems to be a complex figure to Tommy, I think whatever happened between them was damaging. Tommy spoke about him yesterday as well, and while Tommy doesn’t want to like Dream, he’s attached to him. Sometimes I think if I had gotten closer to Tommy like Wilbur, if I’d know more by now. I know I can’t blame Tommy--considering how stubborn he is, this must be a lot for him to go through himself--but moments like these could’ve been prevented if I was better.

Tommy’s convinced he has to uncover it all at once, and alone. I guess our neutrality makes my advice to him less impactful, but I meant it when I said he could take his time with the hard stuff. Healing was not going to be linear.

He’s so desperate to get things done nowadays, it’s as if he knows he’s got limited space. He says everything like he’s being timed. Maybe hanging out with a speedrunner does that to a person. Maybe that was distasteful.

Maybe I’m misremembering. Maybe he’s always been like this. As kids, I know he’d bounce off the wall when Philza didn’t pay attention to him. Before Tubbo, he’d constantly be in motion. Or he’d jump from toy to toy like a frog on a quest.

I don’t know.

Tommy has grown. Tommy’s different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again, this one is a little longer!  
> thank you so much for the support I've received in the last 24 hours! i was really surprised when i woke up with 100 kudos so really, thank you!
> 
> i'm updating and writing with every stream, so this chapter is pretty close to the last one, but don't count on me being this consistent in the future, okay? now that i know people are reading this im kinda nervous lol. i think as i post, i'll be editing/tweaking past chapters as well because my perfectionist brain likes to nitpick, so just look out for that :)
> 
> again, thank you for all the love for this fic, im so happy someone likes it <3


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